Lessons

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Sauer was attempting to write a letter to his mother. The dugout was crowded with the men who weren't on duty. It was night, it was snowing, and the temperature was well below freezing. He had the next watch, he was bored, so he decided to write a letter.

The dugout smelled of wet wool, unwashed people, and had just a hint of the smell of urine. One of the new men, rather than go outside to relieve himself, had peed in an ammo can. Then had proceeded to spill it as he tried to close the lid.

Schwertfeger wanted to kill the poor kid.

"Now it smells like f**king piss in here, damn it kid, what's wrong with you?" Schwertfeger stood over the kid, for he was just 17 years old, and had his fists balled up. He was furious.

They all were on edge, lack of sleep, the constant danger, the horrid weather, and the shitty rations had worn them all down.

"Oskar, let it go." Sauer's voice was quiet, he and Schwertfeger were not exactly friends, but they got along well enough.

Schwertfeger turned in Sauer's direction, his face contorted with anger. Then the vision of Sauer calmly stabbing Schulz to death crossed his mind. Sauer was not someone you wanted as an enemy.

Schwertfeger's face went blank, then he muttered, "Yeah, not f**king worth it." Schwertfeger sat back down, shaking his head, "Sorry, Manfred."

The new man, Schütze Horst Ziegler started to apologize to the squad before Sauer cut him off, "Zip it kid, get your gear on, you're coming with me on sentry duty. You might learn something."

Ziegler did as he was told then started to follow Sauer to the entrance of the dugout.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

Ziegler blushed, picked up the ammo can he had peed in, and followed Sauer into the cold.

The wind was howling, the snow was blowing horizontal due to the wind. Sauer carefully picked his way down the trench. Ziegler was behind him, wondering just how the man knew where he was going, the new soldier couldn't see a thing in the driving snow.

"Here."  Ziegler stepped into a hollowed out section of the trench wall.

There was a firing step, mounted in an opening was an MG 34, facing towards the enemy Ziegler had to assume. The two men in the position, which also had overhead cover, looked at the younger soldier. One of them shook his head.

"They're sending us babies, Heinz." The man who spoke had a very heavy beard, as if he hadn't shaved in days. Schütze Gerhard König had shaved yesterday, but today there was no water for shaving, barely enough for drinking.

"Ah, Gerhard, I'm sure he's older than he looks. How old are you, Junge?" Schütze Heinz Schmidt stepped down and got right in Ziegler's face.

"Hhmm, maybe not. Do you even shave yet kid?" Schmidt asked.

"Don't mind them, Junge. They're just a couple of grumpy old Frontschwein, not fit for polite company." Sauer said, stepping up next to the machine gun. He spent a moment looking out, he couldn't see anything. If anything it was snowing harder.

"You're early, Manfred."

"Couldn't sleep, and the kid here pissed off Schwertfeger."

"Ooh, that's a dangerous game kid. What did you do?" König asked, his head cocked to one side.

"I pissed in an ammo can."

Schmidt chuckled, "What? We've all pissed in ammo cans when it's like this outside." He said as his arm swept around the scene.

"Then I spilled some ..."

König chuckled and said, "Man, pissed off the Ungeheuer¹ and you're still among the living. I'm impressed." König smile faded when he looked at Sauer.

"Are you finished?"

"Didn't mean anything by that, Manfred. I mean the man is f**king huge, you have to admit that." König was nervous now, Sauer had a reputation.

Sauer slapped König on the shoulder, "Just kidding, Gerhard. But I wouldn't call Oskar that to his face."

"Perish the thought," Schmidt chimed in.

Sauer shook his head, "Why don't you two Hanswürste² get back to the dugout. The new officer is making noises about taking a patrol out tomorrow, you'll need your beauty sleep."

"What's your first name kid?"

"Horst."

"Okay, Horst, you see out there, where the MG is pointed?"

"Yes Sir."

Sauer shook his head, "I'm not an officer, not a sergeant. You don't have to call me sir. I'm a simple private, just like you. Call me Sauer."

"What's your first name?"

"Schütze."

The lad looked puzzled, then he understood, Sauer didn't want to be called by his first name.

"You can't see them now, because of the snow, but out there, maybe seven to eight hundred meters away, are the Russian lines. Off to the northwest, a few miles away, is another set of Russian defenses. The ones over there," he said pointing through the machine gun embrasure, "are the Russians trying to break through to Leningrad."

Ziegler nodded, he was staring in that direction as if he could see through the snow swirling out there.

"Those other lines, those are the Russians defending Leningrad. Our job is to keep those people," Sauer pointed in the direction Ziegler was still looking, "from linking up with the Ivans inside the city. Then maybe the city falls, Stalin surrenders, and we can all go home."

"Do you think that will happen, Sir, I mean, Sauer?"

Sauer shook his head, "Not until a lot more people die, Junge. But if you listen to me, and guys like Schwertfeger, you might survive all this."

"Schwertfeger?" Ziegler said it as if to question Schwertfeger's ability as a soldier.

"Ja, unser Schwertfeger.³ He may look mean and nasty, and he is, but he's a very good soldier. He's too damned mean to die."

"I understand, Sauer, I think."

"Don't think too much kid, or they might make you an officer."

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"Snipers like officers, a lot."

Ziegler nodded, he was beginning to like Sauer, even though the man, and his friend Schwertfeger, scared him.

At that moment, Sauer fired a flare out over no-man's-land. When it popped and began to float down, Ziegler swore he saw moving shapes out there, then he realized that it was the shadows moving as the flare swung from its parachute.

He despaired of ever seeing home again. If the weather didn't kill him, the Ivans probably would.

"Freeze, tovarishchi, don't move a muscle." Kazankov hissed at the patrol.

They had hoped to get close enough to the German lines to snatch an unsuspecting sentry. Somebody in those trenches was paying attention.

As the flare sputtered out, Kazankov ordered the men to backtrack to their own lines.

"The fascists are awake tonight, and the snow is slowing down. Maybe we'll come back tomorrow night."

Kazankov spat in the direction of the Germans. "Ne segodnya, ublyudki, ne segodnya."

As the snowfall began to lighten up, the eastern horizon took on a reddish hue. Dawn wasn't far off.

Another day was about to begin in the Hell that was the Leningrad front.

¹ Literally "enormous," can also mean "monster" or "ogre."

² "Johnny Sausages" buffoons or dolts.

³ Our Schwertfeger, Schwertfeger, incidentally, translates to "sword sweeper." Figured Beans would like that.

⁴ Not tonight, you bastards, not tonight. (Не сегодня, ублюдки, не сегодня.)